David said over his shoulder as he walked away, “How could she do that? After all you’ve done for her? Time to give up on smoothing Pat’s edges? Maybe a farewell chat with her? Or a heart-to-heart with Jeremy?”
“On the calendar. Monday morning. With Pat. Not farewell, though. Not yet, anyway. Something more useful, I hope.”
She lingered over her coffee while he chatted. On their way back to the musty-smelling garage, he said, “You’ll never guess who that was. On the phone.” He opened the large door to let some air in. “It was Carlos.” He grinned, though she could tell he was trying not to.
“Carlos? Carlos called, not Vivian?” She put down the beer mugs from St. Lucia.
“He wants to get together. So we made a date for Monday night, after work. I checked your calendar to make sure it’s okay.”
“Monday? What’s the rush?” She flipped through the pages of some half-finished coloring books. “It’s not about the clothing business thing already, is it? What do you think?”
“I think it’s about the clothing business thing. Actually, I know it.”
“How do you know?”
“He said so.”
“Come on David, stop being so cute. What did he say? Exactly. Was it ‘That’s the looniest idea I ever heard, are you out of your skull?’ or did Vivian make him say it nicer than that?”
“He said they’ve been thinking about it and they want to talk about it, and he wants you to know that this doesn’t mean they’re going to do it, they just want to chat—”
“Chat? Carlos said ‘chat’?”
“Well, no, actually, he said ‘rap.’ They want to rap and ask some questions. But he said to tell you not to get excited. It’s just to talk about it a little more. So don’t get excited.”
“Fat chance. I think I’m gonna puke.”
CHAPTER 22
Filling Ruth’s Sneakers
MONDAY MORNING, when Pat came into Ruth’s office, she had her usual chip in residence on her shoulder, carefully balanced by her ramrod-straight posture. She doesn’t suspect a thing, Ruth thought. I’m sure of it. Naïve or smug, take your pick.
“Hi, Ruth. What did you want to see me about?”
So much for the niceties, thought Ruth. Not that I’m dying to tell her how my weekend was, but she should know she’s supposed to ask. “Have a seat, Pat. How are you? Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“We need to talk.”
“Okay.” Pat’s single word sounded like a question. She shifted her position in her seat but didn’t bother to straighten the resulting wrinkles in her skirt.
What a gutsy little pipsqueak, Ruth thought. She’s like the 14-year old who’s cleaning her room under duress. Trying to prove to herself, or maybe to her mother, she can succeed at something and not just be a trust fund kid. Funny, in her own way that makes her sort of a rebel, which I’m actually sympathetic to.
Ruth gave Pat the opportunity to confess, straight off, that she’d been doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. Pat’s face betrayed a moment of fear, then went back to her previous impassivity, like the kid’s drawing tablet with a film that, when lifted, erases the drawing. Peekaboo—now you see her, now you don’t.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Trish.” Ruth put down her cup and leaned forward. She spoke softly. “Let’s cut the performance and get to the matter at hand. What’s going on with you and Jeremy on the new line?” She folded her arms and hardened her stare.
Pat was startled into silence for a moment, looking down at the cup of tea she held between her hands in her lap. When she raised her eyes, it wasn’t to look at Ruth, but to the window behind Ruth.
“How did you know about that?”
Bingo. “Did you really think you could go behind my back and not have it get back to me? Even with the boss.”
“It was only to—”
“Even if you don’t like the project—and you’ve made no secret about that, which, by the way, is a political error—you’re obliged to work for the good of the department and the company. Or at least appear to be doing so. Are you trying to further your career or sabotage mine?” Stop, Ruth. Don’t overdo it.
Pat’s jaw tensed and her fist clenched. “I am working for the good of the company. And anyway, I can’t believe you’re talking to me about undermining and sabotaging.”
Ruth leaned back in her chair. “Huh?”
“You and your generation spout all that women’s lib stuff about women helping each other along in their careers, but you’ve resented me from the beginning.”
This was interesting. Ruth wasn’t crazy about the tone of voice but was glad they were unearthing some truth. Maybe beating “mommy” at work is better than beating mommy at home.
“I don’t know what you mean, Pat. And I really want to,” Ruth said with as much sincerity as she could muster.
“It sometimes appears you believe there’s room for only one intelligent and powerful woman around here. Judy doesn’t count because she does that puppy-dog routine, as it were. But my mind is focused right where it belongs, on the bottom line.” Pat shook her head as if she were brushing hair out of her eyes, though her hair was far from her eyes and far from loose enough to fall anywhere. “You said you wanted to understand, so understand this: I think you feel threatened.”
“I honestly don’t know if this will be good or bad news for you, but I don’t really think about you enough to be threatened by you. Really, Pat, I’m not saying that to be spiteful.”
And out it came. Not venom, exactly. Wounded and striking back. Pat resented having been passed over for a promotion to another department the year before. Someone she considered less qualified had gotten it, even though it would have been a natural career step for her.
“And I would have gotten it, too, if you hadn’t blocked it. You talk about developing your staff and helping us with our careers, but when the time came, you just couldn’t abide seeing me succeed. Because I’m not your clone, I’m different from you.”
“You think I’m the one who blocked your promotion?”
“Oh, Ruth, please don’t condescend. It was obvious. Everyone knew. I always knew it, but then when Jeremy confirmed it—”
“Jeremy wasn’t even here then.”
“But he talked to people and found out. I always knew, but he just made it official.”
Poor Pat. Pat the puppet. Ruth realized she should have told her long ago that it had been Dean who’d vetoed her big move. Ruth would have okayed it, even though she wasn’t 100% sure Pat was ready, but Dean was adamant.
There had never been any doubt about Pat’s technical skills. The concern was about her ability to manage people. People are much harder to manage than paper, projects, or fragrances. She reminded Pat that they’d discussed those weaknesses at her performance reviews. Dean thought it was too big a deficit for such a big leap.
“If I’d known how much you held it against me, I certainly would have told you. You could have asked.”
Pat slouched a bit. Ruth could practically see the chip on her shoulder start to tumble. “Dean did it?”
“Would you like to see the paperwork?”
“Then why did Jeremy tell me it was you?”
“Now that’s a very interesting question.”
Ruth led the dance of revelation. She’d ask a question; Pat would answer, then back off. Ruth would come at it from a different angle, and Pat would answer again before backing off. Ruth didn’t mind being patient, because she didn’t think Pat was backing away from the truth out of crankiness or antagonism. It was humiliation. That was different.
During the conversation, she saw a physical transformation, too. Pat’s face became older, more tired. Her hair would not be considered messy for anyone else, but for Pat it qualified. Instead of a center part from which two rigidly-defined sections of hair framed her face, there were actually strands hanging over her eyes in a way th
at would be sexy on another woman. And her eyes were changed somehow. They weren’t darting, but they also weren’t steady. It was as if they were unmasked, as if she’d previously had a cataract—a cataract of pretense—which was gone.
Something inside her dissolved, too, something that had been holding everything together for presentation to the outside world. The clothes managed without the internal support, but the body and face collapsed.
They eventually stitched the whole story together. In retrospect, it became clear that Jeremy had started manipulating Pat shortly after he arrived. He may have fooled people into thinking he didn’t understand emotion by not displaying his own, but he had clearly seen the tension between Pat and Ruth. He even encouraged it, telling Pat he agreed that Ruth was a corporate misfit, and calling her charity benefits an unprofessional diversion. He ultimately stoked resentment into fury by telling Pat that Ruth was behind her non-promotion.
It was a baby step from there to enlisting Pat to keep him apprised of developments on About Face. He didn’t want anything about the project to come as a surprise to him. “No detail is too small,” he’d said.
Pat had assumed Jeremy thought, as she did, that About Face was a dumb idea and that he wanted to be ready for the ‘go/no-go’ decision. The point of all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, or so she thought, was that Jeremy wanted to have an iron-clad reason to get rid of Ruth. He was new, she was well-respected, it would have been too big a battle to fire her otherwise. She didn’t share his corporate values, as Pat herself did. If it appeared Ruth was losing her edge, though, getting rid of her would be easier.
When the discouraging results of the first series of focus groups came in, she expected him to pull the project. She even rehearsed her reaction. She decided not to be overly surprised or overly sympathetic, because everyone knew she didn’t much like the idea. But a little surprised, a little sympathetic.
Then, last Friday, when she told him Ruth was thinking of ending it herself, she thought he’d be so happy and tell her the project was dead. But no. He said he was going to let the project run. She couldn’t believe it.
“Not hard to understand. Pretty clever, actually,” Ruth said. “If About Face succeeded, fine. The company would make a lot of money under his watch. If it failed, that wouldn’t be so bad either. In a different way.”
“And then he sent down….” She took her pile of papers off Ruth’s desk, peeled off a green sticky note, and showed it to Ruth. It had a drawing of a pair of sneakers.
At least she had the good grace to blush when explaining that it was a joking reference to her filling Ruth’s shoes someday.
Pat took a strand of hair and began absent-mindedly twirling it. “I know, realistically speaking, some people might think I’m a bit young to hope for that. But I thought I’d do a good job. And it would be poetic justice, after you gave that promotion to Isabel instead of me. Or so I thought.”
“I can see how you might think that.”
Pat looked straight at Ruth. “Are you making fun?”
“No. You thought I’d unfairly slowed your career, which means a lot to you, so it didn’t seem unreasonable to you to unfairly slow mine.”
“Not many people around here understand that my career is important to me. They all think that because I don’t need the money….”
Ruth waited. Pat wasn’t going to get away with retreating into her turtle-shell of pretense.
“… it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. But it does. It’s not about money, it’s about, well, about … competence, about independence, so to speak. And other matters and issues.”
“I see.”
“In my defense, though, as it were, I never thought he was going to let the project proceed. I never thought he’d actually let the company lose money on a new product, merely for reasons of his own ambition. That really surprised me. And confused me.”
“It is surprising.”
“But by then I was sort of … well, committed to helping him. Do you think that he really was planning to give me the job? After he let the project run and it failed and you … well, you … you left. Or do you think he was leading me on, lying to me?”
“Pat, if you believe nothing else I tell you, believe this: There’s no way he would have given you my job. And he probably wouldn’t even have let you keep your job. Because you’d know too much.”
“Perhaps you’re right. That would make him—”
“A bastard?”
Pat’s face woke up. “Yes, a bastard. A stinking bastard.”
“Who else knows about all this?”
“Nobody. Nobody at work, at any rate.”
“Have you kept notes about what’s gone on? To document it? For self-protection in case it should all backfire?”
“Jeremy instructed me not to commit anything in writing. Sometimes we’d email each other, but I didn’t save any of them. E-mail’s too public.”
“I need to think for a minute.”
“I need to use the rest room.”
Ruth paced as her brain raced. It all made sense. Jeremy wanted her out, Pat wanted her out, they joined forces. If she was responsible for an expensive failure, they’d both get their way. But Jeremy was using Pat. Too bad she hadn’t looked to me as a mentor instead of Jeremy. Oh well, that’s her problem.
When Pat returned a few minutes later, she looked more like her old self. Amazing what complete disclosure plus a little makeup does for her, thought Ruth. I wonder if there’s a New Product in that idea? A mirror to tell the truth to, plus some products? Or a tape recorder? Maybe a diary?
“Okay, here’s the plan. It’s simple. You just continue to give Jeremy information about About Face. I’ll even make it easy for you, I’ll hand-feed it to you. All I want you to do for me is not tell him you and I had this talk.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Of course, if he tells you anything that you think would help me out, I’d appreciate your telling me. You never know, you might actually want me on your side someday. But all I’m asking you to do is not tell him we’ve spoken.”
“But what will happen? With Violins & Wine?”
“First of all, it’s now About Face, not Violins & Wine. It’s a good project, it always has been, and it’s going to get even better. Now, as to what you’ve done behind my back. For now, I don’t plan to bust you. Perhaps I should. Most people would. But I’m trying to focus on your loyalty to Mimosa’s bottom line instead of your ambition. Keep in mind, though, that a few minutes ago—somewhere back around puppy dogs and clones—you were very close to being out of here. Consider that you have used up eight of your nine lives. And that you owe me.”
“Thank you,” Pat said, only slightly above a whisper.
“That didn’t hurt, did it?”
“What?”
“So, are we agreed?”
“I won’t say anything. And also, I offer my apology for the trouble I’ve caused. I certainly wish I’d been privy to the information about Dean and the promotion all along. But you can count on me from now on.”
“Good. And one more thing. I don’t want you to tell anyone about this, not Judy or Tom or Colleen or anyone else. It’s really better for you not to, and it’s better for me too.”
“Fine.”
They shook hands. They smiled mechanically. Ruth considered Pat’s half-hearted apology a start, and she was firm in her resolve about what to do. And so very glad at the possibility that the hard part was over.
CHAPTER 23
The Cost of Failure
RUTH FORCED HERSELF to concentrate on a mountain of memos and reports, trying not to see everything through the distorting prism of her battle with Jeremy. After reducing the stack by half, she allowed herself to replay the mental videotape of her confrontation with Pat, but only twice, and concluded that it had gone reasonably well with no major gaffes. She’d been firm and clear, and it had worked. Firm and clear were good. She hadn’t always been so firm and clear.
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br /> “SHOULD I TAKE 100% COTTON T-SHIRTS or cotton-poly blends, mom? The packing list says cotton is better, but you know how wrinkled they’ll get. Do people care about wrinkles in Africa? What do you think?”
“Whatever you want, Ruthie darling. You obviously can make up your own mind about things.”
“Mo–om, if you’re not going to help me, I wish you wouldn’t stand there watching me pack every single thing. She picked four pure cotton shirts and two blends, folded them neatly and put them in a corner of her duffel bag. Then she grabbed one more cotton-poly blend and shoved it in.
“Doris’s son thought he’d join the Peace Corps too, but he changed his mind at the last minute and—”
“I’m not changing my mind, mom.” Only five pairs of underpants on the packing list? She rolled up six, put them in the duffel, and put the other two back in her drawer.
“Why is this happening to me? Between your sister’s hitchhiking around god-only-knows-where and your being in Africa, I won’t sleep for a single night. Can’t you change your mind? Just this once? Do it for me?”
Ruth tried to count to ten before answering. She only got up to four, but at least she didn’t stamp her foot. “Stop this, I’m going.”
“I’m just trying to help by looking out for your best interests. Someday you’ll thank me. You’ll find a good husband and start a career. Your father agrees with me, even though he doesn’t say so to you. Maybe men don’t talk like that.”
“Or maybe because he’s actually proud of me, as in, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ I thought you believed that.”
“I’m sure there’s a way to do something for your country that’s not so dangerous. Africa, for goodness sake. Look at all those shots for all those diseases. And there are wild animals and …. You can help out at the American Cancer Society or the Friends of the Library or even be a candystriper if you want to volunteer.”
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